“Sophie Mouette… It’s pronounced ‘Mmm…wet!'”
What development coordinator Felicia DuBois at the Southern California Cat Sanctuary needs: Sex with something other than her vibrator. Gender and number of participants optional.
What Felicia doesn’t need: Someone sabotaging the make-or-break benefit that could mean the future of the sanctuary. She especially doesn’t need ultra-sexy Gabe Sullivan from the Zoological Association sniffing around, wielding the authority to close the cash-strapped exotic cat breeding facility.
But damn his smoking hotness!
Felicia’s in a race against time to find both sexual fulfillment and the saboteur before the Sanctuary’s future becomes as endangered as the felines it houses.
“Mouette handles the sizzling sex…with a generous hand…. This is a delightful, amusing and sexy whodunit.”
— Romantic Times Book Review (4 stars), August 2006
“Sophie Mouette has a sizzling erotic romance with Cat Scratch Fever…. The twists and turns in the plot kept me guessing and I really liked the end, without a doubt…. Cat Scratch Fever is a very good erotic romance and I highly recommend this great read.”
— Just Erotic Romance Reviews (4 stars)
“This isn’t erotica with a plot. This is an erotic romance within a whodunit. And the result is a fabulously entertaining arousing work of erotic fiction with a very well developed plot and strong characters. Cat Scratch Fever won’t just arouse you, it will divert you from the cares of your day.”
—A Romance Review (4 roses)
Cat Scratch Fever was one of only two novels to make Violet Blue’s 2007 “Sex Books That Don’t Suck” list!
Cat Scratch Fever combines a cleverly unfolding mystery with some steamy sex among the animal cages to leave you purring with pleasure.”
— For Women (Vol 14 Number 4)
“…Ms. Mouette entwines erotica and mystery together wonderfully and is able to keep you entertained through the whole tale. Spicy hot, this is definitely the ideal bedtime story.”
Cat Scratch Fever is an erotic romance that starts with a bang and keeps pumping and grinding until the end…. The plot was intriguing and filled with enough sex to keep readers panting.”
“I’m glad you’re free,” her boss, Katherine, said, “because Gabriel Sullivan is here, and I need you to show him around.”
Who? Felicia scanned her desk, looking for a note to herself that might reveal who Gabriel Sullivan was and why she had to play tour guide.
“The representative from the Zoological Association,” Katherine prompted.
Oh. The Evil Suit who was coming to make sure that their budget issues weren’t affecting the cats. The very thought made Felicia want to growl and unsheathe her claws. It was unthinkable that anyone on the staff here could bear to see anything happen to one of the cats. Hell, they’d all already taken voluntary pay cuts. Okay, the Southern California Cat Sanctuary looked a little shabby around the edges, but it was all cosmetic. Their first priority was the cats: food, shelter, and the breeding program.
She didn’t like him already.
Gabriel. The name conjured up the image of a nebbish little man, short and round and balding, with squinty eyes. Someone who hadn’t been laid in far longer than she. Felicia licked her lips and smiled. Fine. She’d blind him with her charms, he’d write a nice report, and everybody would be happy.
“I’ll be right out,” she told Katherine.
She felt around under her desk until she found the strappy sandals she’d kicked off, and stood, straightening her skirt. With the heat, she hadn’t bothered to wear hose. Her legs were long, toned, and tan. All the better to entice you with, nebbish man
She slathered lip gloss on her lower lip and went to meet him.
There was no short, balding man in the gift shop. However, there was someone akin to Felicia’s primary sexual fantasy: Tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a fine ass evident even beneath the crisp khakis he wore. His light brown hair was tipped with gold, like a Bengal cat.
He turned from the rugby shirt display (the SCCS logo was appliquéd on them) and smiled. A dimple flashed. Her mouth went dry.
“Mr. Sullivan,” she managed.
His handshake was strong, his hand warm and dry with a hint of rough calluses that implied he worked with his hands.
Do not think about the work his hands could do on your body.
“Gabe, please,” he said.
Ah, now that name suited him. Short, masculine, easy to cry out in the height of passion.
No. She had to stop thinking like that. He was the interloper, the enemy. She plastered on her best marketing smile, took a deep breath, and began her promotional spiel about SCCS.
“We’re home to some of the world’s most endangered species of cats, and are considered a foremost breeding centre.”
She held open the glass door for him. The dry desert heat slapped against her as they stepped outside, stealing the moisture from her mouth. They paused, letting their eyes accustom to the glittering sunlight. In the desert this far from Los Angeles, neither clouds nor smog filtered the sun’s direct rays.
“I’m familiar with SCCS’s work, Felicia,” he said. “I’ve done my homework—I don’t need the brochure.” Before she had time to huff out a breath of annoyance, he continued, “How did you end up working here?”
“I was sick of working in the city,” she said simply. “Sick of the backstabbing, the people who didn’t care about where they were working, who just wanted to get ahead. It was all so…pretentious.”
He didn’t say anything as they walked, and something compelled her to add, “I’ve always loved animals, especially the big cats—my parents used to have to bribe me with stuffed tigers to get me to leave the tiger enclosure at the LA Zoo—so this just seemed perfect.”
Good lord, she was talking about herself as a child. It was both unprofessional and unsexy. But he was smiling, and she totally lost her train of thought, staring in fascinating at the dimple that flashed on his left cheek.
Then the smile was gone, and he was looking, not at her anymore, but at the stark-looking cage before them. In the back, sprawled on a plywood box that served as a “cave,” a jaguar eyed them lazily.
Felicia hastened to explain. “While we do have a few older cages left, we’re working towards having natural habitat enclosures for all the cats.”
“Is that what your upcoming fundraiser is for?”
She debated what her answer should be. He probably already knew, and was testing her.
“Not exactly,” she admitted. “Although that is our long-term goal, this fundraiser is for more basic needs. We’ve lost some key donors in recent years, and we need to build that support base back up.”
She didn’t tell him about the wolves at the door. The local community of Addison had expanded closer to SCCS’s land, and that land was now prime space for, say, a mall. If they couldn’t build up their donor base, get some serious contributions, and pay their bills, a buyer already lurked nearby ready to snap up the land for his nefarious commercial purposes.
As if she wasn’t under enough stress organizing this fundraiser.
She was hyper-aware of Gabe’s presence as they walked along the simple concrete path between the sets of enclosures. He smelled good, some sharp, spicy scent that was half-aftershave, half healthy masculine sweat. He looked unfrazzled by the heat, though; his short-sleeved, dark blue shirt (which matched his eyes) was still crisp and dry.
None of it, not one bit of it, helped her libido. Or maybe it helped itself.
Her nipples tightened beneath her professional-looking, apricot silk shell, her lace bra suddenly erotically confining. In fact, all of her clothes seemed too constrictive. She wanted someone to peel them off her, slowly and deliberately. She wanted to sink into a cool pool of water with a very naked, very hard man.
She tried very hard, really she did, not to think about Gabe being that very naked man, but for crying out loud, she was only human!
His body hair would mirror the hair on his head, she guessed: gold-tipped. There would be a dusting of it on his chest, just enough that she could run her fingers through it, gently tug on it. Pink nipples would peek shyly out from beneath the fur. She’d flick her tongue over them, and he’d respond with a gasp and a wordless plea. Many men didn’t know how erogenous their nipples could be, and she amused herself by trying to decide if he was one of them, or if he knew, and would appreciate that she guessed the truth.
Either way, he’d like it, a lot. His cock, pressed against her belly, would twitch and throb. What would his cock look like? Pale at first, then blushing like a virgin bride as it fully hardened and begged for attention, a single sweet tear escaping that she would lick away. Then she would pause, looking coyly up at him, to see his reaction. Those blue eyes would darken further, to slate. Would he ask for more with just his eyes, or more? She guessed—hoped—he’d be verbal. It made her shiver with delight when a man pleaded. Told her what he wanted. Beseeched her for more.
But it went both ways. He’d want more, but he’d also want to give more. Oh, he’d be the type to not be satisfied unless he knew the woman he was with was satisfied, too. It would be a matter of pride.
Her thighs trembled, weakened by lust. The spike heel of her sandal caught on the edge of the walkway, and she stumbled. Gabe reached out a steadying hand and caught her arm.
She swore her bare flesh sizzled where he touched her. Her already peaked nipples began to ache. His hand was strong, large, and then she was imagining that he was spanning her waist with those hands, lifting her up, pressing her against the bars of the cage and driving himself into her…
“Are you okay?”
She came out of the fantasy to see Gabe staring at her with concern.
She couldn’t stop herself. She rested her hand on his and purred, “I’m better than okay. I’m sensational.”
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